Don't mess with Sasquatch when he's taking a crap.
Well jabronis, it's been a long while since I schooled ya'll in some paranormal crap. My day job's been keeping me busy, and I haven't had much time for my true passion, which is defending the great city of Hillsdale from various ghouls and hood rats. One beastie that's eluded me is the most famous of all American monsters, Mr. Bigfoot, playa extraordinarie, AKA skunk ape, ape drape, yeti, etc, etc. Last year, I made ya'll a guide, but I think it's time that I updated it, seeing how new information has been discovered. I FOUND MYSELF A BIGFOOT YA'LL. I got the skuzzy video to prove it. Unfortunately, Art's loser brother Gary borrowed my camera to make a sex tape before I got to copy the video to my computer, and he's been incognito for the last week and a half, so hopefully the evidence is still on there, but I wouldn't count on it.
The exact circumstances of my bigfoot sighting are shrouded in mystery, but let's just say I was taking one of my best hood rats down to the river for some hanky-panky and we got more than we bargained for, so to speak. She was knobbing down on my crankshaft and I was looking at the river and wondering how many toxic tons of semen were flowing down the Ohio at that moment, when we heard some ruckus in the park. "Woah, there, shortie," says I, "I better go check that out," 'cause I figured it was some trailer trash fornicating on top of the slide and/or monkey bars, and Gordy Weaver don't get no blowie while munchkins are roaming about. So I jump out and get my Louisville Slugger, which I keep handy in the back seat, and I march on over toward the swing set, and lo and behold, what the fuck do I see but a goddamn Sasquatch with a trashcan shoved over his head like he was the high school nerd and the football time just got done having themselves a time on his behalf. Even from fifty feet away I could smell his ass; he smelled like someone masturbated into an old sock and then left it out in the sun for a few eons in order to marinate it. "Virgina, go get my camera!" I yell. That hood rat wasn't the brightest, and I guess it pissed her off when I called her Virgina, 'cause that wasn't her name or something. I turn around and she's not there, and when I turn back the goddamn Bigfoot is standing right before me, trashcan still on top of his head. He murmurs something, I couldn't understand it because I don't speak Sasquatch. "Keep cool, brotha," I tells him. He lets out this low roar and it sounds kinda sad, like somebody shit in his cereal.
"Yo homes, what's up?" yells some asshole, and I look and it's Gary Howard, and he's got his arm around my hood rat. I put my finger to my lips to tell him to shut up, but he walks right up to me and slaps me on the back. "Finders keepers!" he whispers, and I tell him to look at the goddamn Bigfoot and he finally does. The hood rat screams; Gary grabs the baseball bat out of my hands and starts wailing on the trashcan, and the poor Bigfoot's screaming now, his ear drums likely shattered, and I sprint to my car to get my camera to capture the whole pathetic scene. This shit continue for about twenty minutes, the Bigfoot running around, arms flailing, Gary chasing him with the baseball bat. Eventually he manages to bust out of the trashcan. Gary takes one swing at him and the Bigfoot catches the bat, jerks it out of his hands, and snaps it in half like a toothpick. Man and beast are staring at each other, eyes locked, and I'm thinking that this is the final end for Gary Howard, but then the monster turns and jumps right into the river! We watch him swim toward Kentucky. So if you ever wondered if Bigfoot would fuck his cousin, I guess you have your answer. I'll let you guys know when I get my footage back. You'll be seeing me on CNN and shit.